


Briefest of Nightmares

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [57]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Animal Death, Childhood Memories, Overdose of Nightmare Fuel, Suicide Attempt, Trans Characters, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22278628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: In which I scrapped a story I've lost interest with, but I like the beginning enough to want to post it.Or, dealing with a winter giant with an untested, dangerous strategy while completely alone causes some alarm in those who wander in later with no clue as to what happened.Edit: Added the rest of what I had previously written, but will not write more.
Series: DS Extras [57]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

There were already flies buzzing about the corpse by the time Wilson had gotten there.

The massive fallen giant had taken down near half the forest, sprawled out and bloated eye only hanging on by a few threads to the rest of its skull, and late winter made the snow more of a mush, gashes of ice shard spires and mud mixed together that pierced through the very earth. The whole scene was a nightmare, even in broad morning daylight, and he frowned at it all, adjusted the backpack on his back and looked over to where Wigfrid was already butchering the beast's body.

"I thought it would end up a lot farther from camp."

She sat up at hearing his voice, arms elbow deep in the bloody belly of the giant, widening the gap she had started to make to gut it. The woman gave him a crooked grin, a wave of her bloodied hand calling him over as she hailed him.

"Ah, alchemist Wilsön! I did nöt expect yöu tö shöw."

As Wilson wandered over, the woman stood up, swiping the blood from her arms and the bits of lengthy bristly fur that caught with it. Closer now and he could still feel the heat of the monstrous creature, the ice cold steam rising from its open wounds.

Now that he looked, however, not many of them looked to be made by spear point.

"Why wouldn't I? I thought we all agreed to take the Deerclops to the opposite forest, well away from camp and perhaps into a few spider nests as well."

"That was öur plan, yes." Wigfrid looked around, sweaty and face dirty from her butchering, before spotting her pigskin backpack and going over to dig around a moment. Taking out a rough hewn fabric roll, the woman went about cleaning herself up, more presentable as she got the splatters of blood off her face. "But, it appears sömeöne möre fierce göt tö the beast first."

With that she reached around her bag and pulled out something else, shaking leftover snow and mud from it as she handed it over to Wilson.

He reached out with careful claws, genuinely curious as he narrowed his eyes, but once he recognized it his scowl fell from his face.

"...what was he doing out here?"

"I have nö answer för yöu, friend." Wigfrid had quieted, wiping her hands more thoroughly as she shook her head, frazzled braided up hair speckled with drying thick giant blood. "There are marks öf a terrible fight all aböut us, but…"

She straightened up, pointing a hand out to the giants corpse before swinging it around to the piles of roughed mud snow, marked up and letting realization set in for Wilson.

"I föund the stuff öf nightmares, but nö bödy. Yöur demön is still öut there."

Wilson ignored the minor jab, instead folding the torn up fabric in his hands and briskly walking over to the stains of evident shadow magic. He already knew her feelings when it came to the old former Nightmare King, and he didn't feel the need to try to dissuade her.

Oftentimes Maxwell very much deserved the reputation he had earned.

Right now, however, there were more important things in his mind. Crouching down, all that was left in the slushy mix of snow and mud were the faintest traces of glistening oily fuel. No remaining gelatin ooze, no larger chunks with slimy flash images glittering tar like in the morning sun, only stains left.

That either meant the shadows summoned had been alive far longer before the Deerclops had gotten to them, or that the remains after death had been picked up for use later. Perhaps even during the fight, a fallen ally recreated back to the living once more.

Wilson has seen Maxwell do that, a few times actually. It may get the job done, but it never ended pretty once the effects started to take their toll upon the older man's mind.

"Will yöu gö öut tö search för him?"

Wilson slowly stood back up, his claws still keeping a firm hold on the shredded remains of the suit jacket he now had possession of, turning to look at the big woman as she came up behind him. For all the blood still speckled over her, Wigfrid actually looked concerned for once.

Not the usual reaction to knowing Maxwell had been in a bad situation.

"I will have to." Wilson heaved a sigh, tense and between his teeth as he took a long, slow look about him, the snow and mud and dark oily stains, face curved into a serious scowl. "The Deerclops might not have gotten a hold on him, but the shadows will."

"Aye, but he was nöt left unscathed." Wigfrid answered his confused look with a shake of her head, gesturing with a glance back to the stain in the muddy snow. "That is nöt all just the fears öf the night, Wilsön. I smell blööd, and nöt just the beasts."

That made him turn back, squint his eyes as he really had a look, and then gingerly squat down and dab a claw into the stained mess leftover for them to look upon.

His claw came back stained with oily fuel, shiny near lavender, and the thick black red of clotted blood. Crimson, faint but there, and now that he's seen it the dark stains became more clear, not just inky splots in the snow.

He should know by now; the former Nightmare King's body worked in corrupt ways, and his dark foul blood was one of them.

He turned, raised his claw to show the waiting woman, and she nodded her head with a downcast look upon her face, eyebrows drawn heavy and yet frowning all the while. 

She was thinking about something, Wilson realized. Whether it was connecting the pieces of this odd mystery or something else in her life he didn't know, and he couldn't stick around to talk about it. If Maxwell was still alive, Wilson needed to find him. 

Bundling up the torn, fuel stained fabric remains and stuffing it away, getting ready to get to work as Wigfrid turned to go back to preparing the corpse they now have for their stocks, Wilsons claws brushed against something in his bag.

"Oh, Wigfrid, before I go…" He swung the bag more fully around, balancing it for a moment before finally digging out the package he had just finished wrapping a little before daybreak, hours ago now. "This is for you, finished and ready to use. I did the best I could, with what little supplies I have available."

The women's hands were thankfully clean as she took the package from his claws, blood stained fabric towel tossed to hang from her shoulder as she carefully opened up the top to peek in. For a moment he waited, anxiously clicking his claws as he repeated to himself that he had done fine, he had done it right, it was what she wanted.

And then she pulled the bag close, loosely held to her chest, and Wigfrid gave him a very relieved smile before breaking into a deep, full bellied laugh.

"Öh wönderöus alchemist, friend, yöu hönör me." She took a few steps to him, close as to swing her arm around his shoulders, big and near intimidating compared to him as she gave him a big buck toothed grin and even bigger one armed hug, smearing faint bits of giants blood to his vest from her own armor. "Thank yöu, Wilsön."

"I-it's no problem!" He might have squeaked that out a bit, the warm contact and big smile a bit sudden for him, but Wigfrids happiness was catching and he returned the smile, with a bit more nervousness though. "Just, remember that it is a prototype; it may not work as intended, and with the limited resources in the Constant it may not have as strong of an effect as the stuff you were used to…"

The woman shook her head, grin still plastered to her face, her voice laced with a happy relief he's never really heard before, especially not directed at him. 

"Dö nöt wörry, Wilsön. I trust in yöur true judgement, and fine knöwledge."

Wilson's smile was a little more faint this time, unsure, but her words reminded him on what he had to do now. As Wigfrid let him go, standing tall once more and holding the package close, Wilson quickly got himself into order and focused upon the stains of nightmare fuel and blood splatters, looking for a trail, any trail of any kind.

He did call over his shoulder one last time, the medicinal side of him reaching out just to ensure what he had done was well understood. 

"Only once a day for now, alright? I might need to adjust the dosage, and I don't want you getting too much at once." He glanced over to see Wigfrid carefully putting the package away into her bag, her looking over at him in his silence before he made himself continue. He had to focus, but this needed to be taken care of first and foremost. "Take it easy with any intoxicating substances, and tell me if you start feeling ill or have any odd side effects."

She nodded, serious and focused on his words, but Wilson would feel guilty, and not to mention too nervous if he left it all up as just him being the one to answer questions.

"Talk to Wickerbottom if you have any other questions and I'm not around, alright?"

"Öf cöurse. I trust yöu, Wilsön, but…" Wigfrid gave him an apologetic smile, tucking away the dirtied fabric towel and half turning back to the giants corpse. "A scribe learned in all arts knöws direct answers. Öld Wickerböttöm will have my audience if need be, sö dö nöt tröuble yöurself any lönger."

She returned to the beast and its oozing blood pools, taking up her nearby gorey spear with one last smile, equal parts concerned, pitying, confident in him.

"Gö, find the victör tö this fight. Beföre he sends himself straight tö Hel för his tröubles."

A last wave of her hand, and then she disappeared into the mess of blood and fur and hacked open skin, the sound of ripped flesh and cut tendons, muscle tearing in chunks, the gutting of the great one-eyed behemoth begun once more.

Wilson watched a moment longer, still vaguely worried, prototypes always worry him, especially something administered orally and so tuned in with the chemistry of an individual, but he quickly shook himself out of it, face grim and focused as he turned away.

Shadow fuel, crimson blood, a dead giant and a missing man. 

Wilson shook his head, adjusted his backpack upon his back, and got to work. 

***

_"-axwell, are you even listening to me?"_

_The answering hum wasn't much confirmation, so Wilson was understandably a bit irritated and tightened the bandaging a bit more than it needed to be, huffing when it still didn't get him much attention._

_"I don't have to patch you up, you know. I could just leave you to tending these bites yourself."_

_Maxwell ignored him, absorbed into his book and not at all acknowledging Wilson as he finished up treating his wounds._

_"...Did you know that bats can carry rabies? With how dangerous Batilisks are, I wouldn't put it past them to carry such a disease."_

_His prodding still didn't get much of an answer, Maxwell turning another page, and at this point Wilson had enough._

_"You know what, fine, you can fix yourself up. I'm not stupid, I know when I'm not being appreciated for all the hard work I'm doing for someone-"_

_"What are you babbling on about again?"_

_Maxwell finally glanced at him, sounding distracted, and Wilson grit his teeth, counted to five as he inhaled and exhaled._

_"I'm 'babbling' about how your wounds can get infected and can kill you, and that instead of even pretending to be grateful for my help you ignore me."_

_"I'm not ignoring you."_

_"You're reading that blasted Codex, pretty sure that's ignoring me."_

_With that Wilson took a step back, wiped his clawed hands together and frowned at the feeling of blood on his palms, a shiver of agitation up his spine as he searched around for a fabric towel to clean up with._

_With all he's said, the bites the old man had gotten were actually all taken care of. The ruined Nightmare armor had taken the brunt of the damage, so Maxwell was not as bad off as he could have been. He may be irritated, but Wilson was not the sort of person to just leave any open wounds untreated, even as few as they were._

_"Well," Maxwell huffed at him, still not quite closing up the book, holding his place between its pages as his own grumpy scowl fell into place. "I suppose it is not as if I was trying to find a solution to a very pressing problem, pal."_

_"Is it pressing enough to be rude and frustrating to deal with?"_

_He got an even more pulled frown for that, but Maxwell shifted on the log bench and turned his eyes away from Wilson, right back to his book._

_"I guess you will have to find out later, since you don't seem to be interested."_

_"I'm really not, Maxwell."_

_Picking up a nearby towel, wiping off excess crimson black blood and making a face at the mess, Wilson glanced over at the older man. Maxwell was back to ignoring him, pitch black eyes buried into the Codex, for once not even complaining about the stickiness of how his wounds were treated, or even whining about the pain._

_Bat bites were painful, as Wilson knew very well. Thankfully Maxwell didn't have anything far worse, especially since he had been down in the caves._

_Collecting nightmare fuel, of all things! This deep in winter and the old man had gotten it into his head to wander down there for some extra supplies._

_Shaking his head, Wilson debated on just tossing the towel into the fire but decided against it, folding it and looking for a spot to set aside and clean later. Blood stained, especially Maxwell's, but making a new towel in this environment was a harder task._

_"Well, just don't go down there again for the rest of Winter." He didn't get any sign he was being listened to, but Wilson pressed on as he walked about the camp, dropping the cloth down into the grass basket of other, similarly dirtied fabrics. "You can hear the Deerclops' footsteps in there, even if the beast is miles away still. Remember that we want to send it near the spiders."_

_Maxwell continued to ignore him, so Wilson made another firm decision and walked over to carefully lay his claws atop the book, pushing it down with enough forewarning that allowed the old man to glare at him, mouth snarled and just about ready to snap at him for intruding._

_"Don't try to fight it on your own, and don't lead it to camp. Do you understand?"_

_"Obviously, pal." Maxwell hissed at him, pulling the Codex away from Wilson and leaning back ever so slightly, that agitation at getting interrupted from reading creeping into his facial expression. "It's common sense, and even I have that. Don't you worry yourself about me, Higgsbury."_

_The hostility was stronger now, so Wilson backed off with a shake of his head, another sigh escaping him as Maxwell forcefully ignored him this time and buried his face into his book, shoulders raised and moody air coming back tenfold. He might have been a bit pushy there, but he needed to make sure he was heard this time._

_The Deerclops was no laughing matter._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sibling recommended I post the rest of what I had written, and I had stopped at a somewhat good moment so...

The trail was a chaotic twisting mess, leading deeper into the forest, and as Wilson tracked it there seemed to be more nightmare fuel than blood splattered to the ground.

The shadow doppelgangers were not nearly as helpful as Maxwell liked to make everyone believe, and Wilson knew that fairly well. The old man wouldn't have tried to keep summoning them, not after the giants death, but with the stains of tar black in the slushy snow…

A very uneasy feeling was starting to set in his gut, and Wilson's frowned scowl grew deeper the more he slogged on. The snow was still piled thick, but at least half of it was near melted, and as morning drew on the air was warming up. Not enough to dispel the fog clouds he exhaled with every breath, nor to really make his winter clothing too hot to handle, but it was evident now that spring was on its way.

The nightmare fuel was growing thicker as he walked on, but was cold, congealed and grotesque in the half melted snows, and the stains seemed to have gotten a bit more rhythm to them.

It was only after walking a few more minutes, closely examining the trail and now not at all worried at losing its obvious track, that Wilson had to halt and realize what it was starting to look like.

The blackened, splattered marks now gouged into the snow and mud were starting to look more and more like footprints. Large, clawed footprints, to be more exact.

Wilsons gut twisted, as he stared down at one particular set, definitely prints now, stumbled and wobbling side to side but certainly not the splattering mess of fuel remains he had followed in the beginning. Now he was really, really getting a bad feeling about this, and with that he shouldered his backpack and went forward with a more urgent resolve.

Whatever Maxwell had ended up doing to beat the Deerclops, it hadn't ended well for him, and Wilson needed to figure out the _what_ of it and fix it as quickly as possible. This much nightmare oil on the ground and he was surprised he hasn't found any remains of hunting shadows as of yet.

The mental toll of the fuel called Them, and while the old man was more exceptionally prepared at warding the shadows off Wilson was highly doubting his abilities right now. The giant itself had a terrifying aura to it, one that settled deep and rooted even deeper, and having to handle it by oneself did not bode well. If Maxwell had just used too many shadow clones then he would have still been by the Deerclops' corpse, though a bit more beat up or even dead; something else had happened, and Wilson was growing even more anxious not knowing what.

The direction of the trail was going nowhere in particular, another red flag, and it skirted close to a muddy frozen prairie, the faint bellows of beefalo herds echoing from farther out, before suddenly turning sharply back into the forest. The marks here were more hesitant, as if stopping for a mere moment before making a decision, though as Wilson followed it he slowed a bit at the sight of a particular tree trunk now sporting a ragged mess of claw marks dragging down through its bark, trailing veins of black infection behind in a slow slide down.

Dug deep and clean, much like how a shadow sword would cut through flesh. 

Like the wounds the dead Deerclops had sported.

The trail got messier as the snow got thicker, hiding undergrowth and not near as melted in the deep forest. Not up to his knees just yet, only his ankles, but the footprints Wilson tracked clawed deep and scraped through the snow in a near limping trail.

If he was being honest Wilsons mind was whirling with what had happened, what could have happened, even going so far as to bring up memories of traveling the Constants inner worlds to the heart Throne, but he viciously shoved those thoughts back, put them away to unpack later. The first thing was to find Maxwell and ensure he was fine; the second would be to interrogate him to answer the questions Wilson now rather desperately needed answered.

He can think about how he could just walk away and leave the problem for some other time later; something was deeply wrong about this situation, and Wilson needed to find out what, and how to fix it.

The trail dipped into a clearing briefly, a moment where the morning late sunlight got through the pines and shined over the few inches high snow, and Wilson halted, eyebrows knitting up as he stared down at the blackened splattered marks.

Faintly, very faintly, he could see the nightmare fuel was steaming up from the snow, melting it down. A sign he was finally getting closer.

But it looked a bit odd. The Deerclops has been dead for at least an hour, so that was a head start for the other man, and Wilson had thought it would take him longer to catch up. Perhaps the snow was slowing Maxwell down just as much?

The track itself stepped a few feet into the dipped low clearing, before abruptly turning away and leading near parallel backwards, then branching off once again. 

Envisioning the scene was difficult, and Wilson wondered if the old man had seen something and decided to backtrack to take a different direction. But would all this nightmare fuel have even allowed that sort of decision making? No matter how mastered Maxwell was with the dark oils the stuff in huge quantities still altered the mental state of logic and necessity.

Wilson has done countless, 'hidden away from the rest of the camp' experiments on the stuff; he knew at the bare minimum that it was nothing to underestimate. Rather useless to him, and a by product in all truthfulness, but that did not mean it was harmless.

Wilson took a step back, a slow turn to continue following the trail, nightmare oil still reactive enough to eat away at the snow, still fairly new, backtracking into the forest and possibly, what, curving around? Why would Maxwell have curved around instead of walked straight through as his tracks have already suggested earlier? The snow was undisturbed, no other marks, so why go through the effort of making a false start and then turning around-

And then something caught the corner of his eye and Wilson froze.

Years, centuries of surviving had him tense, very slowly dipping his head as to look without making it too obvious, and there was a, a thing? Hiding amongst the trees.

Watching him, he realized, and then it, it _moved_ -

Wilsons swung around, hand going to where he usually had his spear and then cursing himself, he hadn't gone into this thinking he needed a weapon-

Before freezing again as he finally got a good look at it.

It stared back at him, black shadowy oil and bleach white eyes and fog heaved from its breath, and all Wilson could muster was a faint "oh shit-"

Before it lunged forward with a shriek.

***  
.  
..  
…  
….  
…..

_"You know you are not allowed out there! What have I told about the forest?"_

_He kicked his legs out, swinging each dirty, mud caked shoe as he sat on the table, listening to his mother scold and harp and not really listening in the slightest, humming a little ditty to himself. An itchy scab has already formed on his knee from where he had fallen, though the scratches on his face and arms still stung, but he wasn't going to complain!_

_Not now, anyway. Back in the forest had been a different story, and his brother had laughed at him and called him a crybaby when he had finally caught up and showed the scratches all up and down his arms with tears in his eyes. 'You shouldn't have followed me then', his brother had said, but he had stomped his foot, pouted his lips and whined that he wanted to come, he didn't like being left behind. He wanted to go explore with his brother, not be left in the backyard doing nothing! Even if he had to crawl through all the brambles and thorns in the world he'd do it just to not be forgotten!_

_As his mother continued her tirade, scowling all the while as she heated up water on the stove and got rags and plucked at the rips in his dress, he finally pipped up as he remembered something._

_"Jack and I found a deer!"_

_His mother paused, a flash of fuzzy expression before her eyes turned hard again._

_"You two better have left the thing alone, not thrown rocks at it or tried to chase it-"_

_"It was dead." He said matter of factly, still swinging his legs, eyes to the kitchen tiles so he didn't have to look at his mother. "Shot right through the head, Jack said."_

_His mother scoffed, dusted her apron as she scooped up a warm clean rag and hustled over to him, grabbing his arm as she started to wipe off the dirt and clean his scratches. It stung a bit, but he just squinted his eyes, pretending it didn't hurt no matter how rough she was._

_"And you got your glasses muddy too, good grief."_

_Before he could say a single word his glasses were plucked away, goosebumps up his arm as she pulled the rag away to rinse off, turning back to the stove and sink._

_"...the deer still had its antlers and everything." He pipped up, wanting to continue, wanting to finish the story, his story now, since his brother had gone to his room after being scolded, so now he got to tell something for once. "Jack wanted to saw them off and keep them."_

_"It's a good thing he didn't. I will not allow such nasty things into this house."_

_His mother didn't even glance up from what she was doing, carefully cleaning his scratched up glasses, and he looked at her for a moment before staring back at the tiled floor. He wanted to keep talking, keep telling his story, so he kept going._

_"It was all rotted and stuff too. The bones were poking up from its guts!"_

_"Talk quietly!" Snapped his mother, a brief glare to him as his voice rose, and he shrunk down, hands fiddling together, scraping his fingernails against each other. "And don't be disgusting; I do not want to hear about a dead deer."_

_"Its head was the cool part-"_

_"Not another word from you." She turned around, glasses in one hand, clean rag in another, and she stomped over to grab up his other arm and roughly start scrubbing. "And no more going out into the forest, do you hear me?"_

_"But Jack-"_

_"But nothing!" She scolded, and continued on with harsher words, reprimanding him and telling him no dessert tonight, he broke a rule and now he was going to deal with the consequences, like go to bed early and more housework tomorrow._

_His brother wasn't gonna have it this bad, he thought to himself, but he kept his mouth shut and didn't say a word._

_He didn't look her in the eye, quieted down as she went off, goosebumps as his arms turned red and still stung from those prickly brambles he had climbed through._

_He hadn't even been able to get to the best part of his story; when his brother had lifted up the deer's head, all droopy and gross furry skin peeling from its skull, one of its eyes had just up and popped right out into the grass!_

_He'd have left out the part where his brother had laughed at him when he had shrieked, startled, and then had gotten a twig to poke at it and make him cry harder, and all the while the one eyed deer skull had laid where it had been dropped back, flopped in the cold grass and grinning at him the entire time._

_Like it had told a joke and was laughing, just like his brother._

….  
…  
..  
.

***

The infinite amount of time he's lived here in the Constant, survived everything it had to throw at him, was what saved Wilson from what would have probably been a near fatal, and probably very painful, injury.

Flinging himself to the side, jittery adrenaline as he hissed air in and out and rolled in the snow, breaking the thin layer of pretty white into the slushy mud mixture underneath, he skidded to a halt and swung to keep his eyes on the _thing_ that had flung itself at him.

And it was a, a thing of some sort, shadows flickering and oozing off in smoggy smoke from its form, bubbling oil spots and tar bursting into splatters about the snow, like some sort of horrid amalgamation of the shadowy Them and the nightmare fuel itself, and funnily enough the jarring _thing_ before him was pricking his mind, familiar somehow-

It had stumbled, footing uneven from how he had dodged it, claws dripping black with the sheen of oils and a mist rising and falling in goopy rolls, slowly, jerkily turning as the snow stained black underneath it, bleach white eyes wide and empty like the shadows Themselves, and then it opened its mouth, unhinged like a beak with fangs that melted into black tar goop to reshape into massive tusks, and it _screamed_ at him.

It sounded like, like a tallbirds furious call, like the squawk of a gobbling frustrated gobbler, like the layered ungodly sound of the BFB roc from the near unreachable plateaus, the uproarious screech of a honking angry Moose Goose-

Somehow it sounded like all these things, layered upon layered upon layered together, enough of a cacophony din through what had been silent snow laden forest to bewilder Wilson with the utter chaos of _noise_.

The shadowy oil of its form was withering, streaked and oozing over the snow as it wobbled in place, unsteady, unbalanced as it screamed at him, shuddering clouds of foggy air in its exhales, and then it tripped a step towards him and the things that reshaped into talons rose as it leapt at him again-

And it was surprisingly easy to dodge out of its way a second time, this time keeping his footing as to not roll snow and mud into his hair or dampen his clothing, and Wilson eyed it with a hard look as it tumbled and tripped up again, lashing out at the empty space he had been.

For a shadow monster, it was remarkably slow.

And, for a manifested shadow monster, Wilson was fairly certain he was completely sane. It, and the rest of Them, should not be visible right now.

It gurgled out a cough of sound, noise all mixed together; Wilson could catch the burgled sneeze of beefalo and hound growls, the lumbered wheeze of even treeguards in the sound, a groan as the shadows snapped and oil frothed and dribbled splatters about the snow, misshapen claws digging and scrapping through the icy white, the oil forming its legs twisting and seeming almost disjointed one moment, then twisted monstrous the next, and another sound, the telltale moan of the Deerclops, escaped the hooked mess of its jaws, jarringly switching into the clacking upset snarl of a spider Queen.

It rose its head up, keeping a near humanoid framework in all the withering dense shadow that snapped and bit the air, melting down into the snow in rolls of goop before reforming, and its empty white eyes locked upon him.

Wilson readied himself to dodge again, tensing, but instead of lashing out for him again its mouth dropped open, twitching as fangs and tusks and hooked beaks formed and then morphed in the shadowy gelatin of living nightmare fuel, and instead of the horrid orchestra of all monstrous calls from the Constant something more like _words_ broke through.

It was muddled, choked on and then spat out, too many all said at once and in all different ways, and Wilson blinked as he realized he recognized some of those voices.

He could hear pigmen, the ones from villages and the plateau, not the gladiators of the redlands, thick accents and snorting bursts, and then the quiet, heavy sharpness of rabbitmen clips, garbled whispers and heady stops in halting words, mixing with guttural walrus language and the bleating warble of goatpeople, burbling low with hissed distorted merm folk bubbling, and the voices all rose and fell as one in a chaotic mess of incomprehensible sound, noise flowing as the shadow monstrosity stared at him and spoke its words.

It gargled, swaying back and forth as more oil fuel seemed to thin and ooze off of it, before crawling right back up and making its form shudder, and there were words there, thick words in languages he knew and most he knew not, but all Wilson could catch, for a brief moment as it wheezed in a groaned breath and forcefully hissed out voices, was-

-his name.

Before he could even process this it tripped forward again, talons raised and swung clumsily, as if to scare him away, and Wilson stumbled back from its range as realization started to dawn.

" _Go,_ " it garbled, wheezing heavy gagging of merm bubbles before thickening with pigmen accent, wilting walrus language, words he could just barely hear as all these voices cried out at once, " _-away._ "

It heaved for breath, jaws full of fuel formed teeth and tusks, bleach empty eyes staring him down, and Wilson realized what, or more exactly _who_ , this was.

"...Maxwell?"

For a second it froze, its shadow like eyes widening, white and so much like Them it was uncanny, the fuel dripping off in oily shined rolls, spreading a taint into the snow.

And then the dark shadows withered, squirmed and hissed in a thousand monstrous hisses, all natives to the Constant, all created beasts for the Constants lands, and it seemed to shake, tremble as it rose its talons up, massive things as the oil formed and sharpened and dribbled off in thick gloppy layers. The snow under its fuel drenched footing was steaming up thick now, melting into slushy ice mud that started to spread, and it stared at him with wide, empty eyes as those talons somehow got sharper, bigger.

This time he almost didn't see it coming, only warning the sudden high screech of every creature he's ever heard in the Constant all at once as the shadows came barrelling at him, faster than before, not slowed down any longed, and this time his dodge was more of a trip as it lashed out and ripped through the snow he had been standing in. It screamed, wailed in layered voices all at once, all beasts, all creatures, all monsters to this world as it splattered nightmare oil all about.

"Just, calm down!" Wilson yelled as he tumbled back and got his footing, watched as the shadow enwreathed form, humanoid and yet twisting into something far worse, slowly turned towards him once more. "It's just me!"

His words had no visible effect, white eyes back to a barren empty expression, the sudden low humming buzz of the Dragonfly whistling out in a spider snarl, thick and warrior like as it stared him down.

He was ready this time, legs tensing for the leap, but he wasn't the only one ready.

Dodging one swung armful of talons and the shrieking horrible chaos, it was the other swinging down arm that just barely glanced his shoulder.

Almost immediately there was a sparking bloom of white hot pain, too different, nearly unfamiliar, and these shadows still had little strength in comparison to Them but it near flung him back into a tree, tripping in the thick snow and hidden roots underneath. Flailing his arms out, blinding flashes of pain at the forced movement and the buzzing static almost overtaking his vision as Wilson struggled for balance, and he only vaguely recalled his early experiments with nightmare swords, the sharp slice of shadow fiction to realism in his many tests.

He had cut his fingertip open once, for science, and the blinding pain then had near knocked him out for the count. And now he was just barely brushed by and it felt as if he's actually been eviscerated!

He could feel blood under his palm as he pressed a hand to his shoulder, trying to not trip over the hidden tree roots as he backed up, keeping his eyes on the shadow enwreathed form of who he was very sure was actually Maxwell. _How_ that happened, or even the _why_ was the furthest from his mind at the moment; whatever had happened, it made the other man dangerous.

Very evident by the fact that the shadow oils now frothed on the massive talons of the things hands, hissing steam as his own blood reacted to the high concentration of nightmare fuel, but those bleached eyes didn't even twitch away from staring him down. Fog heaved from every strained breath, and even so coated in the oils it was evident the cold was affecting Maxwell, making him shiver and tremble.

With his mind whirling on what to do, not wanting to consider just retreating but actually fighting back was not an option, he knew he could beat Maxwell in a proper fight but he didn't _want_ to kill the old man, that wasn't what he wanted at all! This was supposed to be a mission to find and help him recover from the Deerclops attack, not add another body to the count of today! 

More frothy oil bubbled up and splattered into the snow, streaking black and oddly thick, and the thing that was Maxwell shuddered, hunching forward as hissing garbled sounds escaped from tar fanged jaws. Layers of spider snarls, mixing with throaty Queen hisses and then guttural cave worms, the barking exhale of snurtles, a whined clicking of the Antlion in heavy strained exhales, and the nightmare fuel was slithering off in drips and heaved rolls but only a fraction of it reformed back into the amalgamation.

Very vaguely, dawning realization only, was the thought that maybe Maxwell was still heavily injured; the nightmare fuel acted as catalyst and clot, stopping the heavier damage from escalating.

It was only a theory, running the back of his already overstressed, tense mind, but it was enough for Wilson to suck in a firm, determined breath and recognize that injuries escalated the problem. A wounded creature backed into a corner, unable to run now, was more liable to bite.

And, with all the rising wails of monstrous beasts that bizarrely rose from the nightmare fuel itself, that was the most probable explanation.

Still, pulling his hand away to wince at the blood on his palm and in between his own claws, at the very least he knew how shadow blades worked. It was only a surface wound for now; if it had been more dangerous he'd not have a functional arm.

Before he could try and start talking, perhaps deescalate the situation, there was a wobbling hiss of interruption.

" _Leave_ …" 

The wheeze sounded Deerclops like once again, a gargled groan descending into the thick voices of warbling merms, then the foreign barks of sentient walrus language, and the shadow encumbered form stumbled a few steps towards him, gasping for breath as more oil oozed from its arms, chest heaving and splattering fuel in the already drenched snow. The effort to speak seemed to be taking a far more heavy toll, and Wilson took another step back, face masked as his mind whirled.

He had to think of something, but honestly Maxwell may just keel over from exhaustion at this point; that is, if he didn't try lashing out at Wilson again. If he waited it out he risked the older man actually bleeding to death, or suffering whatever overdose of nightmare fuel this was, but getting close risked those talons actually cutting him more open than he'd like…

He didn't have the time to think, even as he shook his head, tried to rattle a plan of action, any better idea into being, and Wilson's chest was starting to constrict with the strands of helpless anxiety and panic even as he tried to fight it off, shove it away, think, he needed to _think_ -

A howl ripped from within the amalgamation of shadow fuel, forming too many jagged black fangs and tusks and ripped open beaks, the call of the hounds and a twisted pained Varg and even the throaty screeches of bats, the layers of monster sounds confusing and mixed heavy with labored gasps, and then suddenly the shadows coiled and tensed in whipping oily bursts.

Wilson was still caught in trying to throw a plan together, anything at all besides _wait for Maxwell to fall down and die of overexertion_ , but then the empty expanse of oil shadows were in his vision, a last burst of energy the back of his mind recognized, and the shadow monstrosity that was Maxwell towered, loomed over him with a heavy foggy breath and the rattling wheeze of so many familiar foes of the Constant, all at once in a chaotic mess of noise-

Something else rose in the back of his mind, that familiar feeling finally connecting to information Wilson already knew, and very suddenly he remembered the caves and the ruins and the, the fucking _underground monkeys, the nightmarish cycles of black oil bubbling up from the ground and coating the screaming creatures in transparent, shiny slick tar-_

But the shadows were before him and those hooked talons were steady now, unshaken in another guttural Deerclops groan of a snarl, the empty blank eyes of Them freezing him on the spot, goosebumps up his arms and hairs on the back of his neck rising as the fuel and shadow flickered the world grey and white, close and draining and leeching the very color out of the air as Wilson dizzily realized that he may actually _die_ here-

"Maxwell…!"

His voice escaped him, leaving in a last effort exhale of sound, word as he stared up at the nightmare fuel twisted form of his friend. A subconscious thing, exhaling the man's name with a last near terrified attempt, but as the shadows crashed close and those talons slashed down to strike him the mental effects of the fuels proximity was heady and cloying and his knees buckled as he tumbled back-

And Wilson had squeezed his eyes shut, snow seeping into his clothes as he froze, grit his teeth and dizzy with shadow influence and ready for what he's had to go through over and over in the Constant already. He's been through enough death, even at the teeth and claws of Them, to know how this went.

But, after a few moments of holding his breath, Wilson belatedly realized he was still among the living.

Cautiously squinting one eye open and then the other, hesitant and knowing just as well that sometimes things were a hint behind in how quick they actually were, Wilsons breath caught in another instinctive freeze at the sight of those talons being so close to his face.

Whether it had been an attempt at decapitating him or just slapping him away didn't cross his mind; the draining mental effects made his sight blurry, fuzzy about the edges, and he felt wobbly and dizzy just being this close to the high concentration of nightmare oils. He couldn't even internally articulate his thoughts correctly for a moment, blank as his gaze dragged up to the empty white eyes still staring down at him.

The shadow enwreathed form of Maxwell trembled, frozen in the attack, hasty puffing wheezes exhaling out in foggy bursts, more of the fuel leaking away into the snow. The once white frost clearing was a mess of thrown snow and mud, doused in thick oils and that dark hinted crimson and black blood, and more of it leaked in gashes into the snow in front of Wilson, pouring as the shadows trembled and shook. Those talons twitched, near enough to almost graze his face, but it looked as if Maxwell had restrained himself at the last moment.

Being this close felt like, like being down in the ruins, close to the hot vents of the inner Constant, frothing bubbly nightmare fluids rising to the surface. But, down there it grew hot and humid, spicy thick air growing a film on the tongue and causing something close to a fever to set in from the proximity; this was something else, concentrated on one moving mass and not the very air itself.

Vaguely, Wilson realized it was probably far, far worse underneath all those shadows than just being out here under the aura effects.

That thought in turn made him realize he should probably move. Who knew how long the old man would keep still, and if this was just to allow Wilson to escape then Maxwell had the wrong idea on what Wilson was more inclined to do.

He had no ruin aligned creations on him, not in his backpack or even the topside camp he lived in, so there was no combating this with Their ancient works; Wilson would have to think of something else, and quickly.

His own limbs were trembling something awful, and his sense of balance was utterly shot, but crawling out backwards out of those talons range, already out of the immediate presence of dousing shadows was enough to lessen the weight of shadowy mental draining. The stuff was so highly concentrated, and his mouth tasted of blood and his skin was buzzing with pins and needles but Wilson could move and he could, could still think near clear enough and that was what he was going to have to work with. 

He had no idea of what Maxwell himself was handling at the moment, frozen in the attack, shuddering with ever straining breathes and leaking oils and blood. Whatever benefit the fuel had given him to keep him from bleeding out looked to be wearing off, and Wilson hurriedly stumbled away to try and find his near lost backpack, shaking his head to try and get his thoughts back into order.

His vision still flickered, still ran pale and drained of near all color, but it still wasn't completely black and white just yet. He had time before the true Them started showing up, he was, was fairly sure of that much.

Just as he found his pack half sunken in muddy flung snow, snatching it up and shakily letting his knees slide into the slushy ice as to keep his still weak balance, Wilson snapped his gaze up at the much louder wheezing exhale of sound, giants and beasts and labored sentient monsters in warbled agony.

The shadows were slithered and oozing off in strands now, dark blood much easier to see, and the Deerclops must have done more damage than he had originally thought, gaping oily froth gushing and attempting to reshape as the shadow laden form of Maxwell stumbled in a turn, facing him once again and leaning to and fro heavily, monstrous talons scraping through the kicked up snow. Those blank eyes seemed wider, not as empty now, wobbling and round and, maybe even confused somehow, Wilson has never seen Them look confused but this expression must be what it would have looked like, set in the black swirling oils of near transparent gelatinous fuel that enshrouded the other man. 

" _...leave…me…_ " Hissing, spider sound and the whines of hounds, croons of cartoons and the gasping low rumble of the Bearger, the sharp choke of rabbitmen slurring, exhausted and out of energy, and Maxwell stared at him as Wilson kneeled there, one hand in his backpack and only a bit lagged in tensing energy, readying to leap out of the way of any other attack once again.

Before suddenly those talons shot up, sharpened and cruel in shadow morphed oils, black blood flowing down and mixing into the dark foggy shadows just before they ripped into a nightmare fuel coated throat, slashing in and tugging out in one smooth motion.

Wilson couldn't help his yell, stumbling to his feet at the sudden self violence of the act, his reaction near subconscious as more than just nightmare fuel burst out in a gush of black and red oils. Talons streaked with actual blood, nightmare fuel steaming and frothing at the contact, the shadowy monstrosity wobbled, wavered on twisted dark clawed feet, a wheezed choking gasp, those blank eyes still locked onto him, wide and not at all empty, before with a heaved exhale sounding like a hounds dying breath Maxwell collapsed into the snow.

***

.  
..  
…  
….  
_Brambles and thorns pricked his palms as he parted them, squinting his eyes as he pushed through, forest tugging his clothes and trying to block, pull him back to the yard._

_But he'd not let them! His brother was still ahead, still leading the way, and he wasn't going to be left behind again! Never again._

_He may be younger than Jack, he may not be as used to all this exploring as Jack, he may even get scared at the things Jack found funny, but his brother wanted to go into the woods and he will follow, no matter what! Even through all the thorny brambles of the world if he had to._

_He absolutely hated being left behind, forgotten like always. No one remembered little him, no matter how loud he yelled._

_He didn't like playing hide n' seek anymore, but that was all his fault. He had been the one peeking first, squinting behind his fingers as his brother darted off to the kitchen, as he counted loud and slow to twenty, hitting fifteen before speeding up in a slew of numbers as he started to get excited at winning. Jack had not been happy being found so fast, suspicious, but he didn't care cause he had won!_

_Then it was his turn to hide, and up the stairs and away he went, hurriedly pulling down the ladder to the attic, climbing up and tugging it closed once again, rushing to hide behind the storage boxes and dusty covered paintings._

_He had hid there for a long, long time._

_The door didn't open when he tried to push it, tried to lock and unlock it, wiggle the handle and even go so far as kick at the old wood. In the end, it was his mother who found him, carrying him down as he bawled and smeared snot and tears all over her shirt, his brother laughing all the while as he had been sent early to bed for playing in places he shouldn't have gone to._

_He remembered the dusty air, the terror of being locked in, trapped in here, this dark cold room that no one ever went into, ever found even, pounding on the door with small hands and sobbing as he thought about how, how he'd just **die** here and no one would ever know._

_The door had been locked from the outside, his brother told him. The monster in the closet must have done it, since it was tired of him being such a crybaby all the time._

_So he better shut up or it might try again._

_He listened to his brother, sucked it up even as the scratches on his arms stung, itched as he tumbled through the brambles. His brother was still just ahead, just a dark silhouette now; was he getting farther away?_

_No, he wasn't going to be left behind! He wasn't going to be forgotten in the attic and he wasn't going to let some mean old monster hide him away from everyone and he was not going to lose sight of his brother!_

_The forest was a scary place, but his brother was scarier! No matter how the thorns and scratchy brambles tried to tear holes through his dress, no matter how many times it caught in his hair, he was not going to lose sight of his brother!_

_If he didn't know where his brother was, then that would be scarier. He knew that very well, just as he knew there were many things to be scared of. The forest and its thorns were nothing to what he knew all about._

_More brambles seemed to get in his way, tangled up about his legs, tearing more holes in his clothes, and his mother was going to be so angry but she wasn't as scary as his father._

_Sometimes his brother was the one to shove him into the closet for hide n' seek first, telling him to close his eyes and play make believe, count to one thousand all by himself with no help._

_Sometimes his brother left him to fend for himself instead._

_At least his father didn't care about holes in clothes. His father cared about other things instead._

_All this stumbling forward and it was as if the forest wanted to pull him back, drag him away, far away. His brothers shadow twisted ahead, and he could almost hear words, but the forest whispered louder, more distracting, wind in the pines._

_The scratches on his arms stung even more now, biting and nipping, wiggling, and he started to itch, still trying to push through the thorns. Scraping his gnawed sharp fingernails up and down his arms, and then the itchiness spread up his neck, his throat and chin and ears, and he slowed down as he started to really itch, trying to make it go away-_

_There was blood under his fingernails, but not as if he hasn't seen a lot of blood before. His brother cracked his head against the wall once, the one near the stairs; he got blood all in his eyes, and even as his mom stitched him up with curses Jack hadn't cried once._

_He had. He had cried, because it looked like it had hurt, and for once his brother hadn't made fun of him._

_His father told him to be quiet though, so he had shut his mouth and gone silent._

_The itchiness was getting worse now, all up and down his arms, scratches that made his fingernails turn red and goosebumps rise up and down his skin, and he stumbled through brambles and seeking thorns as he tried to-_

_-to make it stop-_

_It was bugs, he realized, horrible nasty little bugs, gnats and mosquitoes and creepy crawlies and horrid black worms, all of them having fallen off the brambles right all over him, in his hair and all over and under his clothing, and he itched and scratched at his arms and now even his brothers shadow was gone, he's lost his brother-_

_-again-_

_-but the bugs didn't leave him alone, withering and biting and slipping around all over his skin, and he scratched at his throat, itched as he felt some horrible **worm** wiggle-_

_-and try to-_

_-pull itself deeper into him-_

_Get out! Get out, go away, get it-_

_Get it out of him!_

_Suddenly he had claws and it was cold and the thorns were gone and his brother was gone and he was shrieking because the bugs were all on him, inside him now, he let **Them** in and now **They** won't get out-_

_So he did what he had to do to get rid of **Them**._

_He rose up his claws and **tore Them straight out**._  
….  
…  
..  
.

***

The mental degradation was doing terrible things to his vision, but even with that Wilson could see that the shadow monster hadn't truly fallen just yet.

No, as he scrambled to a hurried few steps forward and stared, pack held tight in one hand as his dizzy mind tried to organize right side up once more, it wasn't all over.

But as black tar and thick dark blood vomited up into the muddy snow, gushing with hissed steam and choked gargled wheezes of every beast that has ever taken a breath of the Constants air, Wilson felt near frozen as those those talon laden limbs trembled and shook and those claws proceeded to rip and tear at the rest of the nightmare fuel mass.

The thing that was Maxwell withered, ripped itself apart in gorey black oil globs. Chunks of stained swirl transparent hues and blackened splattered blood, ichor in great choking heaves, the snow darkening as the nightmare fuel finally started to tear itself to pieces, and all he could do was stand and stare in shock.

And then his mind kick started, shuddering at the near silence of the act, and he felt sick, dizzy, still strained with the mental pressures he had to tough through and still ungodly unbalanced, pins and needles, but Wilson had to _do something_.

And he had to do it _now_.

So he jammed a clawed hand into his pack and dug out the one insurance he truly trusted in, more than his own invented effigys or the newly understood hearts or the ever present touchstones, and the amulet pulsed warm and comforting in his hands but Wilson had a job he had to do.

With it held in his hands there was a new boisture of determination, and Wilson ran forward.

***

.  
..  
…  
….  
_**They** wouldn't-_

_Wouldn't leave him alone, not without a, a struggle?_

_Claws were numb, vision was numb, pale and empty and utter silence and he didn't know where he was, no thorns, no brambles, no brother or mother or father or-_

_-great heaving one eyed behemoth stomping down and splattering a shadow doppelganger into mush and rush of air and sharp piercing pain as the fuel snapped apart the tethering bond of self and creation-_

_-laughing one eye skull deer, flayed skin and rotted guts and squishy squashy eye, watch this his brother said and near popped it with a well timed jab of a stick-_

_**They** clung on tight, too tight, letting **Them** in as last desperate defense and suddenly shrouded in dream fog memory, where was he-_

_Forest, trees, no brambles no thorns no attic locking in with dark dust and, and too many reaching proding hands-_

_Cursing and hot steam and blood, blood and needle and wincing because his brother had not winced, had not shed a single tear at the pain-_

_And that horrid **worm** was still there, ripped in half, thrown to the ground snow tile wood dirt, but **They** still clung and held and exhaled fog dream nightmares-_

_-great claws snapping another clone, another shadow, viewpoint into a tree, ice shards piercing straight through, he could see the ice and fuel leaking down as it rumbled a groaned roar, leaking from him before the connection snapped and he was back to stumbling away, this great bloodshot eye that locked on him, why was it following why did it attack him-_

_Had to get the, the, **Them** out, now, get out get out-!_

_**They** had, had helped, come to his aid, but-_

_Not anymore! Get out!_

_Tugging horrid sickening strands of **worms** and out of him, clawing in deep and ripping, tearing, out of him out of his flesh and bones and skin **They** were welcome no longer-_

_-and the great creation, giant clawed hand horns raised as it exhaled hot rotten breath and stared down at him, ready and hungry and laughing, these things always laughed even as young clumsy calves, stupid giants-_

_-it hated him, he realized, and that was why it attacked **him** , only him, another snap and heart thudding hard in his chest and stumbling as a shadow double was shredded in half, and down his feet twisted and there was terror and horror as it-_

_-Deerclops elk laughter, at him-_

_-and he-_

_-called for help._

_.  
..  
…_

_And **They** came._

_Like **They** always did, rushes of screamed half memory and broken thought and even more ruined promise, sung songs with wrong endings and skewered through tunes of cacophony wails._

_And then it was quiet again, snow and ice and dead, dead shadows, dead him in splatter nightmare oil fuel doubles, and he was here but not and he was dead but not and he bled but not and **They** -_

_-made it disappear._

_Like always._

_But now the **worms** had done-_

_-something, bite claw glance a blow as voice words **name** -_

_Familiar face, familiar voice, wait, wait and stop, a moment he, he can't just, he **can't attack** , not this familiarity, not-_

_-unlocked key dust dark salt air and stormy eyes and stormy judgement and eternal mercy and-_

_-and suddenly he did not want **Them** any longer._

_**They** were not pleased. He did not care._

_**They** were not welcome anylonger._

_And so he tore **Them** out in great oily strands, numb piercing pains as **They** bit and clung and peeled the rest of what was left of him apart-_

_And it hurt, heaving hurt cold pain stinging fading darkness-_

_But **They** were **gone**..._

_.  
..  
…  
..  
._

_And then something else, someone else, there not but here, and he tried to fling it away in a withering of talons and choked wails and he can't let **Them** in again, he just can't-_

_But it was harder, slippery in cold melt snow ice frost mud, clawing and lashing out to near nothing there nothing nothing but **on his back** -_

_-and he couldn't breathe-_

_-tight choking wheezed rattle **pain** and cold clasped metal gold digging deep into ruined stinging dead throat, pulled back tilted then falling, fall snow cold too weak, too limp, not enough, remains pulled together by nightmare fuel dead dead **dead** -_

_- **the giant had killed him but he didn't want to die so They granted a merciless mercy-**_

_And then a...beat, pulse of warmth and weightless nothing._

_**They** were gone, and he..._

_Was very dead, he realized belatedly before it all just...went away._  
.  
..  
…  
..  
.  
***

Wilson sat in the snow, cold and clothing a bit damp, sodden, panting as he tried to catch his breath. Being thrown off like that had knocked the air right out of him.

But he had gotten the amulet around the other man's neck. 

Maxwell had made some sort of horrible rabbit shrieking noise when he had done that, one that gave him the nails to chalkboard shuddering repulsion, but that was partially his fault. He had to circle around, jump onto the nightmare fuel doused mans back and cling on as those talons swiped in the air and then turned inwards, ripping apart the throat and then chest, digging deep and gutting blackened gore and black gushing oil in strained heaves, wails rising as if from the mouths of every beast Wilson has ever came into contact with, every spider, pigman, beefalo and rabbit, moleworm and bat and individual giant. Every single thing the Constant housed wailed at him from the withering, struggling nightmare fuel as it ripped itself apart in strands and globs of frantic oil, and underneath all that, faint but very much there, was the distinct sound of a man screaming.

Getting the amulet around Maxwells neck had been difficult, the nightmare fuel burning Wilsons skin everywhere he touched, latching on, buzzing pins and needles and sudden grey and black and white and the layered whispers of so many shadowy Them watching the scene in equal amounts of glee and amusement. The shadow embraced monstrosity underneath him, ripping itself apart, bucked and flailed as if to throw him off, and all Wilson had to hold to was the amulet.

And the chain had dug right into the ruined remains of a torn out throat.

So Wilson felt a bit bad about that unnecessary pain. Thankfully it actually made Maxwell pass out, collapsing with a last choking cough of a heave that rattled into silence. 

The life amulet pulsed bright in the dark shadow fuel, beating as makeshift heart, but Maxwell himself hadn't actually died. If he had the amulet would have sent Wilson to sleep, so...there was at least one thing about this that had turned out right.

A wheezy sigh hissed through his teeth, Wilson sitting there and watching the faint glow of red bath over the blackened snow, the draining frothy oils, heart finally slowing from hammering in his chest.

Coming into contact with the actual nightmare fuel, not just the glancing slash that had long stopped bleeding by now, had near thrown him out of reality headfirst. The stuff felt as if it had...hands, or more like lips and tongues, grabbing onto him and sucking at his skin, clinging as if to try and trap him in place, or even transfer over as those whispers had wailed sung songs he was so thankful he didn't remember any longer.

How, or more like _why_ Maxwell even had a coating of pure nightmare fuel over him was still a mystery, but for right now, trying to catch his breath in the snow, Wilson had at least made an important, memorable discovery.

The nightmare fuel should not in any way shape or form be coated on the body besides as the already well known diluted armors. He will certainly not be trying to make clothes out of it anytime soon, that was for sure.

The idea has never once crossed his mind before, but at least how he _knew_. Good grief.

Heaving another sigh, glancing up and noting that it was now midday, actually sliding down to evening, winter days still short even with coming spring weathers, Wilson carefully pulled himself into a stand. He was a bit sore, thrown into the snow like that, shoulder painful and stiff, he'd need to treat it soon, but he could deal with all that easily.

He's lived through worse.

Scooping up his backpack, swinging it around to hang on his uninjured shoulder, Wilson shuffled his way over to the collapsed form of Maxwell.

The Life amulet seemed to actually be chasing away the rest of the shadows; oil peeled and pushed and dripped into the snow, hissing steam, and underneath was the remains of a ruined ripped up suit, the glimpse of pale skin and blackened veins. Fog puffed up with each breath, slow, very slow, but he was assured that Maxwell was breathing. 

It was practically over now, thank whatever power that was out there that watched over them. The amulet did its duty of fixing up the injuries, Deerclops made and self inflicted that Maxwell had acquired, and the nightmare fuel was being washed away.

It made Wilson let out a sigh of near utter relief, before he shook himself and steeled his shoulders. It may be over, but they weren't out of the fire just yet.

They can't just sit out here in the snow; even with arriving spring dusk was cold, and the nights far colder. 

Wilson had this part of the world memorized by now, but he fished out a small doodled map from the pocket of his pack, faintly smiling at the child like scribbles set in the corners. Webber may not be the best artist around, but it was always the thought that counted.

Checking it over, assuring himself where he was, Wilson nodded as he figured a route and delicately slid the paper away once more. Without much further ado he squatted down, hesitated only a mere moment before figuring a way to carry the old man. Nightmare fuel sloughed off in thick gelatinous globs, making his skin prickle and shiver every time he brushed with it, but as more time passed there was less oil and more actual flesh and fabric underneath all that. 

It took a bit of maneuvering, but Wilson finally stood back up, weight carried on his back, having carefully twisted those talon taden arms loose around his neck, the brush of fuel formed fangs brushing his neck before Maxwells head slid to the side, leaning and making him have to catch his balance as he lifted the unconscious man in a near piggyback ride. It wasn't the best choice, but it would still be somewhat of a hike to where he wanted to go and this was better than trying to carry too much or put too much weight on his sore shoulders. Not the most comfortable for either of them, but Maxwell was unconscious and Wilson has been through worse.

He can deal with this, he reminded himself. He may have never seen anything like it before, only vague memory from the travel down to the Nightmare Throne Room, but Wilson assured himself anyway, taking measured breathes. Maxwell was light, but the nightmare fuel was a bit heavier. 

Thankfully the stuff was starting to just slide right off the other man. Leaving him a bit bare, so the worry of late winter temperature was going to be a big cause of concern.

The pulse of the warm Life amulet pressed to the back of his neck, down against the middle of his shoulder blades, and with that Wilson leaned forward to shoulder the weight, adjusting his footing as he stiffened, hooked those long, nightmare fuel coated legs with his arms, finally starting forward, eyes hard and focused.

Next step was to find a camp, a mini one, hopefully empty of the others. Second was to wake Maxwell and get some answers out of him.

The beat of the amulet, like another heart, contrasting with the slow, stuttered thump of the old man's, matched his careful footsteps, sinking into the muddy black infected icy slush before crackling into harder, newer snow fall.

Wilson walked on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...have lots of vague headcanons. I will not explain any of them.


End file.
